The Lark and the Linnet Bird
by canihavealittlemoneyimverygay
Summary: When Jean is sent back to prison, Cosette's world comes tumbling down. Forced onto the hostile streets of London, things worsen when a perverse Judge offers her work in his house—but a newly found friendship could change everything. When Jean is recaptured he battles his growing demons and fears for the life of his child—but he soon meets a man in a very similar situation.
1. Chapter 1

**This is set predominately in London in 1832 for simplicity's sake. In this AU, (set roughly after "One Day More,") Cosette and Valjean have moved to London to escape Javert, unbeknownst that Javert has been following their every move, (in this version Javert does know of their location, it is not just Valjean being paranoid about the Patron Minette.) At this point in the Sweeney timeline, Sweeney is still incarcerated.**

 **Enjoy!**

 _London's Docks, 1832_

Cosette stood at the front of the ship, knuckles white on the wooden railings. Ribbons of hair fluttered to her throat and shoulders. She looked upon her new home of London with a grim observation; the sky was bleached black, plumes of smoke clogged the throat of chimneys and water sloshed darkly at the edges of the boat. To the sailors flanking the river she seemed to glow against the grime, but even they couldn't miss the pinkness of her tender complexion. One docker turned to his friend with a coy grin as the boat rocked forwards, Cosette helming it like a prow. "Malato d'amore," he said, pointing her out: 'lovesick.'

Valjean approached slowly behind her, placing the palm of his hand on her shoulder. To see her upset hurt him, but he knew that he'd done what was necessary to protect her; she was safer here—with the squalor and the polyglot tongues and him—than alone in Paris. Under his grip, her shoulders dropped like they'd suddenly gotten heavier.

"We're almost there: look," he pointed forwards, where the Tower Bridge parted in front of them. Tilting her chin to the black sky, Cosette tightened her grip on the railings as wind forced more hair to part from her face. Feeling the boat slow, she let go of the railings promptly, watching as it turned into the shaded docks. Ropes were flung, zigzagging in the space between the boat's edge and the side of the docks, whose high walls were slick with algae. Valjean's arm tensed in Cosette's grip as two navy-clad policemen idled past the dock, puffing smoke from mustached lips. She never asked why police officers elicited such a response, just as he had not asked why, exactly, she found the idea of life in England so abhorrent. She looked down at the slice of blackened water between boat and land—as big as the rift that age and distrust had driven between her and her father.

Her thighs felt like jelly when she was finally on still land. This was not only due to the nauseating contrast that five days of seaborne travel owed her, but for the pandemonium of London's streets: the women bustling by with baskets of fruit on their heads, the butcher holding slices of fly-infested cadaver out in grubby hands, the fishmongers packing great slabs of meat onto their scales and bakers zipping in and out of lines, trying to make a profit without the hassle of actually setting up shop: " 'alf a penny sir, 'alf a penny," a small, impoverished boy parroted, wielding bread buns like a scepter. Jean gave him a polite smile and pulled Cosette close. They boy, noticing the small scrap of acknowledgement, honed in on him. "Come on sir, you got orf chump?" he insisted, waving the bread under Jean's nose. The man continued to smile, belying the fact that he didn't understand a word the child was saying; though well-versed in the English language, he hadn't been expecting accepts that were quite so thick. "They sell it for double down at Covent Gardens—oi, mind the grease!" the boy was exclaiming to a hooded man who had knocked heavily against his shoulder, causing one of his products to fall in the mud. Valjean tensed. Feeling equally sorry for the boy and anxious as to the identity of the hooded man, he fished money out of his pocket, looking over the child's head the whole time. Before he knew it, he was half a penny poorer and clasping a bread roll he had no appetite for. The boy had disappeared into the bustling crowd and as had, it seemed, the man.

Jean tried to steady himself; he was sure that he had seen the hooded man before, on the boat. He had never surrendered a clear view of his face but Jean had tried not to let it worry him, putting it down to the work of disfigurement or disease. The lack of traffic control sent pedestrians trudging down the right side of the road as carriage thundered past them, spraying mud onto Cosette's already grime edged dress. Tired, cold and thoroughly homesick, she dropped her gaze to the floor until it warped with tears. Had she been looking up she might have noticed the harried, heavily bearded face of Javert.

Five days on the boat, hiding in corners, breathing in the fetid stench of unwashed bodies. Five days since he had missed Valjean by mere seconds, forcing their cat and mouse pursuit to carry them to the other side of Europe. He had hidden his identity, certain that Valjean would go to ridiculous means of escape—even if it meant leaping into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Now, on land, he was ready to reap the rewards of his thirty-six-year penance. His arm reached out for Valjean.

All of a sudden Valjean felt an arm grab his throat. Panicked, he began to struggle, freeing his arm from Cosette's to pries the grip away. Noticing him leave her, she whipped around, startled to have lost him in the swarm of people.

Javert had dragged him into a clearing. He told himself to be succinct—all he needed was to restrain the prisoner—but days of sleep deprivation seemed to have stirred anger within him. Soon his fists were beating down on Valjean's head, clawing at his face, yanking his arms to keep him in place. Valjean's confused memory didn't allow him to conflate Javert to his assailant. He merely had the impression of greying hair, a full beard, and bloodshot eyes. Assuming it to be a robber, he struck him hard under the chin, sending him toppling into a nearby crockery stall.

The almighty noise roused attention. "Hey!" a Police Officer barked, striding towards the struggling pair. "What the 'ell's goin' on 'ere?" Valjean pushed with all his might, managing to free himself from Javert's grip. Cosette elbowed her way through a ring of gathering witnesses. Her eyes widened with horror when she saw blood dribbling from the scratch on her father's cheek. The two men stood facing one another, like animals raising their hackles. Gradually, the fug of confusion slid away from Valjean's mind. He looked into his attacker's eyes and felt a cold pang of recognition.

"Cosette?" he called, scanning the crowds for his daughter. With a grunt of effort, she freed herself from the side of a portly gentleman and rushed towards him, her hands immediately seeking his bloody face. He yanked her hands away and clung to her, ready to run the moment the British police officer's back was turned.

Javert's eyes didn't leave Valjean's face as he spoke. "Sir, I have been pursuing this man for almost forty years. He is a criminal; he broke his parole and has been travelling unlawfully through France trying to evade detection."

"No!" Cosette cried, before she could stop herself. Her frenzied mind clung to mere fragments of English. "My father, good man! _Good man!"_ she insisted. Her eyes turned to Valjean's face, desperately searching it for a sign of confirmation. He remained still, dazed in shock. "Papa?" she gave his arm a shake.

"You what?" the officer said, confused by the whole affair.

"This man," Javert pointed towards the paralyzed Valjean. "Is an ex-convict, who broke his parole and has been on the run for years." He could feel himself swell with pride. This was it; he could sleep easy in his bed now. Cosette shot him a murderous look, her fingers tightening on Valjean's arm.

"What was his crime?" the officer asked, playing with his facial hair.

"Theft. Escape attempts… this man is a threat to society."

The officer had heard enough. Removing his baton from its holster he advanced upon Valjean. "Come on, let's not make this difficult," he said.

Cosette, who had failed to wake her father from his trance, stood in front of him, masking her helplessness behind determination. The officer seized her arm and tossed her aside. She landed against the blockade of the crowd, much to their amusement. This finally stirred a reaction within Valjean. He seized the officer's throat and began to throttle him. Neighboring officers noticed the struggle and rushed to assist. They dogpiled Valjean, whose strength seemed to cut through them still. The crowd booed and cheered like it was a show of Punch and Judy, the crack of a baton against skull eliciting particular pleasure from the crockery seller, whose smashed plates were being gathered from the floor.

Cosette watched in horror as her father was carried away, head lolling drunkenly between the three officers, who struggled under his slack weight. And Javert, with an unfathomable flood of triumph and relief, didn't seem to notice the girl stumble into the mud, sobbing as if her heart would break.

 _Kiri's Lane, London, England_

Johanna's eyes remained open in the dead of the night. She never gave into the throes of sleep, no matter how enticing it seemed. It was a mirage in a desert; dreams no longer protected her, for when Johanna's eyes slid closed, the click of the door sliced through the silence like a guillotine.

At first she'd pretended to be asleep. Sometimes he wouldn't touch her but he would always touch himself; the rustling of skin of skin would be magnified in the hushed darkness, along with the ragged breathing and the occasional murmuring of her name. No matter how burrowed down her face was in the covers she could always feel his eyes on her.

Later he'd moved onto trying to wake her, shushing her as she made sleep-addled grumbles of confusion. His weight would cause the mattress to sink. He would toy with the fabric of her nightgown, feeling the soft pale flesh of her thigh. His clammy palms on her leg made sickness swill in her stomach, his heavy breath stirring her hair— but she would stare straight ahead into the darkness, pretending that he wasn't turning her onto her side, that he wasn't tugging her skirts from her legs…

And systematic thrashing would ensue. Not that it ever made a difference, for Johanna would soon succumb to him, fall limp on the bed as he had his wicked way with her. Although in the darkness he didn't see the small white glisten as tears of hate stung her eyes.

 **Please review with any constructive criticism :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm switching to single speech marks now; sorry if that's distracting!**

 **There is sexual content in this chapter-be warned.**

 _The Old Baily, London_

'Well yer honor… I saw out of the corner of me eye, a great mafficking, so I goes' to see what's wrong and—'

'A great _what?_ ' Judge Turpin raised an eyebrow at the portly officer, who blinked back with confusion.

'A mafficking, yer honor… a brawl in the street…'

Turpin sighed heavily, massaging the heavy purple lids of his eyes. From his stand Jean glanced up, wondering whether to remain steely or to beseech the judge with his eyes. The bored, reptilian look on Turpin's face made him settle on the former—he was immediately likened to the numerous men who Jean knew would not yield to mercy.

'This is a court-room, officer,' Turpin said in his monotone drawl. 'Not a pub; do not bring your slang in here.'

There was a low chuckle from the jury as the officer blushed a fierce red, ducking his head. 'I… yes your honor,' he said, and in spite of himself, Jean felt sorry for him.

'Then what happened?'

'Well I goes to see what's goin' on, and I see _'im,_ ' he pointed a chubby finger at Javert 'Shakin' a flannin' with that man. I thinks, maybe he's not up to dick or half-rats or God only knows, but I gets to them an' e' says that it's Jean Valjean, an ex-con from France.'

Turpin gave a slow blink.

'So what you mean is that there was a fight in the square and it turns out it was an officer trying to convict a con?'

'That's what I said.'

He sighed again. ' _Then_ what happened? And please, try to keep your foolish tantamount to a minimal.'

'Well, I…Well I tries to get a hold of this Jean Valjean, but he starts up a whole batty-fang in the square, kickin' an screamin'… it took three of to restrain the buggar. Had to—' the officer gestured a single cuff with an imaginary baton. Jean was reminded of his throbbing head, where hair was matted with blood.

There was a flicker of intrigue in the judge's cold grey eyes. 'I see.' He turned his gaze. 'Inspector Javert, it is your turn to speak.' Jean's heart began to race, a sudden sweat springing to his armpits.

The court-room was a huge open space, tall, with varnished pews. He was reminded transiently of Sunday Mass with Cosette, although there was nothing sacred here— In front of him sat a sea of powdered white heads that masked over-fed faces, bored eyes and beringed, callous-free hands. Here they squandered their old age convicting pauper children and prostitutes who see the gallows before they shed their first blood, sending mothers and babes to work houses or foreign bays for filching the bread they wouldn't waste half a penny on.

It was these men that he focused upon as Javert recounted the events that had taken place that afternoon. Jean stared forwards, eyes blank, empty, watching motes of dust drift through the light. His hands were tight on the edge of the witness post, like Cosette's had been on the railings of the ship.

 _Cosette._

Nausea sloshed in his stomach. His girl. Alone; whatever was she to do now? Five hundred francs sat in his green overcoat, which had been taken from him before the trail, along with his pocket watch. Perhaps displays of wealth made the affluent judge uncomfortable—or perhaps the officers knew how much they could flog for the items at Covent Garden. Cosette had nothing but the clothes on her back and the hair on her head. Perhaps she would, god forbid, be forced to follow in her mother's footsteps—shed her golden locks and her silk dress, stand in wait for men at the dockyard.

Kicking the unhelpful thought aside, he tried to conjure the image of Cosette from when he had first known her. Ragged, emaciated, but resilient. Somewhere inside her lay the child in the woods, the child who hardily endured muscle-tearing labor, illness and midnight traipses to freezing wells.

'Urbaine Fabre!'

Snapping out of his daze, Jean turned towards the judge, who had the manner of someone repeating themselves. His long-taloned fingers were curled around the corner of the bench. Jean was put in mind of a vulture.

'Do you plead guilty to the charges brought against you?'

Jean stared forwards, knowing that he had been beaten. His eyes met with Turpin's, wondering if, somehow, he could touch some human string in the cats' cradle of his heart.

'Do you have children?' he asked.

Turpin did something close to a double take. His white eyelashes fluttered. 'Excuse me?'

'I have a daughter. Barely out of girlhood. She is alone. Please—if I am to be convicted, let me settle my affairs and ensure that she is—'

'Do you plead guilty?' Turpin asked, his voice edged.

'—She does not know this country. I fear that—'

The sound of Turpin's gavel sliced through his account. He banged it three times on the tabletop. _'Do you plead guilty?'_

Jean's stomach swooped. He looked around at the jury, hoping to find some scrap of warmth on their faces, but it was like being in a fish tank. He swallowed, his mouth parched.

'I've heard enough,' Turpin said conclusively. Then, turning his attention to the restless jury: 'it is almost lunchtime after all.' A low, humorless chuckle issued from the men in the pews. There was a communal shuffle as the austerity of the room was broken.

Jean closed his eyes. His thoughts fell again to Cosette. He wondered where, exactly she was, whether she was savvy enough to stick to well-lit routes, know when she was being followed…

'Suspect found, Guilty. Court is adjourned.' The Judge was already standing as the gavel hit the bench. A lead weight slid from Jean's chest to his stomach. He was stapled into his fate. He could have made an effort to plead, to beg for his freedom, but it would fall on deaf ears—just as the song of the caged bird doesn't stir its owner to set it free.

Turpin hurried through the oak-gilded corridors, catching blurs of gold, oil paint and olive-green leather. Clusters of magistrates made for the great hall, some having shed their powdered wigs to reveal bald pates and greying hair. They noted that the judge seemed flustered. Some even grimaced but held their tongues, allowing him past as he hurried into the bathroom. As he slammed the doors open two young men stymied their conversation and hurried away, heads down. He made for the closest urinal—brand new, porcelain—and shed his robe, which was chafing tender against his skin. He made a quick, desperate job of it, his eyes closed the whole time. He tried to magnify the thought of the young girl; barely out of girlhood, he'd said, who was probably one of those clean Christians from rich French families, with soft hands and silver crucifixes. Other women drifted into his head to construct the image—Johanna, of course, and Lucy. He conjured girls from the plaintiff stands, the underdeveloped prostitutes and who tried to hone their childish hips in corsets, the young women who'd been groped in alleyways and wept in the court room. A palimpsest of features passed through his head. He thought of rutting over the girl, tearing her, seeing her young face drawn in pain because she didn't think it would hurt like this…

He finished with a grunt. The thoughts dissipated immediately, as did any lingering interest in the fictional girl—it had, after all, been a day devoid of females. His imagination had clung to Cosette simply because no-one else had filled the spot. Leaning back, he tucked himself away and wiped his ruddy face, regret now tinging the affair. He didn't bother cleaning the urinal; that was someone else's job. As he walked away, he wondered if pleasuring himself had been enough to tamper his lust for today. Perhaps his ward could sleep undisturbed tonight.

 **Please review with any constructive criticism :)**

 **(Next chapter should be up soon.)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Usual warning for sexual content and language. A huge thank you to rebecca-in-blue for leaving such lovely comments and inspiring me to continue with this story. Your reviews mean the world to me (and you're also the queen of Les Mis fanfiction so it's an honour to get noticed by you at all tbh.)**

 **This fic is also starting to get more views which I'm very happy about but if you're reading this,** **please** **review.**

 **I'll also try to update weekly.**

 **Enjoy! :)**

 _St Dunstan's Market—London_

There was noise, that much she knew: the crashing roar of chiming bells, wagons, dog-carts, carriages, hagglers, street performers and omnibuses. All was drowned out by a light, sick buzzing and the single thought: _this can't be happening._

She knew she had to move. Not that she had much choice; the market was a slew of jabbing elbows and traffic. Transactions were brief, mono-syllabic. Stalls ranged from pyramids of fruit to baskets of crabs still struggling for life on their beds of crushed ice, live chickens to human hair. Cosette paused for a moment before the stall. The wart-faced woman, seeing her hesitance, gave a toothless smile. 'Shilling,' she said, thickly by virtue of her lisp. She jostled the ponytails and Cosette flinched as though they were live eels. Her stomach swooped at the thought of all the women they had once belonged to, about where they were now, how they were making a living…

She was shoved out of the way and almost collided with an iron-skeletoned tailor's dummy. 'Oi!' someone called, and she was unsure as to whether it was because of or in defense of her. She was looking at her distorted reflection in a silver dish and gasping, gasping for air.

'You alright, love?' long fingers grasped her shoulders. She instinctively pulled back, and met the pseudo-friendly face of the tailor, all pock-marks and thinning hair. 'Having a gander at the frocks are we? I can tell you're a woman of fine taste.'

Thoughts aligned before her suddenly. 'How much?' she barked. The tailor stopped in his tracks. A smile played on his lips.

'And French to boot. My, I am in luck today—' he brushed a hand over the cheap dresses as though fondling hair. 'A pound and a shilling for you my dear.'

'No, for this,' she seized the powder-blue silk of her own skirts, unaware that her frantic trawl through the city had left it edged with street dust. 'I'll sell it to you.'

The tailor's smile faded immediately, and all of the latent sharpness sprung forth into his expression. 'I don't buy,' he muttered, backing into his rails of dresses. 'I sell.'

'Please,' Cosette managed to keep her voice under control, despite the hammering in her chest. 'I'm desperate.'

'You don't look desperate.'

'I have nothing. I have nothing to eat, nowhere to stay—please Monsieur.' A quickly potent regret flooded in the second after she had divulged her situation; to make herself so vulnerable to this stranger. He scowled at her.

'You're not the only one. If you're not going to buy anything then get out.' He busied himself with his accounts book, pulled out a sugary smile for a passing punter.

'Where can I get work?' Cosette persisted. She was fighting back the sickening waves of realization, the desperate nature of her circumstances. Now irked, the tailor advanced like he made to strike her. He stopped just before her face, yanking her close by the elbow.

'You can start by selling your hair and your cunt. Someone might want your teeth. Then it's the workhouse.' He shoved her, hoping to throw her off-balance. She caught herself and, annoyed, the tailor spat at her feet. 'Welcome to London you fucking froggy.'

* * *

For awhile she lost herself in the maze of streets, stumbling across the square of heady-bright flowers which drove her to sickness, through the narrow warren of Medieval lanes in Aldwych, where pipe-smoking men would let their gazes dribble down her neck and breasts. In the streets, navies took mallets and hammers to the roads, roughening it for horses, sweating despite the frigid temperatures. Sticky stones were dragged out of the ground by carriage wheels, crossing-sweepers cleared dung and licky-mac, their bare feet tan with filth and casks were rolled by boys, bumping out a hollow drum-like sound. Cosette felt like a ghost amongst them, directionless, unseen, faint. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, where she was going or what she was going to do—but the darkening sky told her that these were decisions she would have to make soon. Drastic thoughts flashed before her mind, of Rippers and slums, of all the shadowy predators that Papa had obliquely warned her about. She'd never seen them as tangible threats, not with him on her arm.

She got a sudden hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her face twisted and, for the first time since her father had been carried away, she let her feelings seep into her eyes. And all at once she was crying, her shoulders jerking with silent sobs, her body braced against the railings of the river-front. Distant clinks of capstan-palls, chains of cranes and splashing ropes paled into white noise as she let her panic hare through her. Would she ever see Papa again? What did the man want from him? What terrible secret had been eviscerated, and what would his penance be?

The horror rolled over her in great waves, like sickness, and she was so entangled in her fear that she didn't hear the figure creeping up behind her.

'You look like a juicy bit of cunt.'

The air was knocked out of her. She felt her ribs crushed against the railings, her hair tossed over her face. No sooner could she gasp to scream that the weight was pulled back, her body unburdened. With the fresh air came a whiff of whiskey. She was out of breath and blinking up at a young man in a shabby brown jacket, his chin marked with angry zits, his eyes starry with drunkenness and his hand massaging the crotch of his trousers.

'James, you fucking berk,' a hand tugged at the man's arm and a shorter man emerged from his side. 'Sorry love.'

Flummoxed, Cosette's mouth opened and closed. She was trembling and couldn't yet feel the tears rolling down her face.

'He thought you were, y'know…' the shorter man gave a euphemistic nod towards the docks. Cosette felt the back of her neck prickle, her body grow rigid. 'One too many whiskeys,' he gave a humorless laugh and yanked James's arm, who had leered forwards to stroke one of Cosette's curls.

'I want her,' he slurred.

'Well she's not for sale, mate.' His friend steered him to the stairs, but not before giving Cosette a lingering up-and-down look. 'You should probably run along,' he said. 'Now. This is no place for a girl like you.'

They disappeared beneath the docks. Cosette continued to gasp long after the accost—how quickly the danger had pressed in, and she had been powerless to stop it. Another pair of men passed, jostling, cracking ribald jokes. For a second she wondered how she must look to them: weak and bovine and in the wrong part of town. She cast a glance down below the darkening pier and, sure enough, saw James thrusting sloppily into the pallid, dimpled backside of a young prostitute.

She hurried away, stricken, her heart thumping like a hammer. She needed to find some place of sanctuary, and quickly. By the time she had reached the town center, the sky was pitch black and she was beginning to limp from where her ill-suited shoes had cut into her ankles. Tired and spent, she scanned the streets, pondering every lofty limestone building to see if it was a church. The words of the tailor circled in her head: _"you can start by selling your hair and your cunt. Someone might want your teeth."_ Her gums seemed to ache at the thought. _"Then it's the workhouse."_ The workhouse; it had been the epilogue to the dismal list. The worst-case scenario. But could it possibly be worse than what the women beneath the pier endured?

 _No,_ Cosette thought, anchoring herself to a fate at last. She would slave at the loom but she would never sell her body. Whatever lay in wait at the workhouse could not be worse than the hollow, lifeless eyes she'd seen peering from painted faces in Paris. She remembered the first time she had seen a face like that. She had been nine years old, and shelling out francs to orphans with her father. He had bought her a new dress and she was twirling in it, liking how the fabric fell heavy on her calves. Jean freed his hand from her arm in order to drop a coin in a beggar's dish and listen to the semi-sane story which was rattling from his lips. Cosette saw a cluster of colorfully dressed women huddled by a street lamp. Peeling away from Jean, their outfits drew her childish fancy. She trotted over to inspect them more closely. The moment that the first woman turned to face her, it was like she'd been hit with a juggernaut: Her eyes were bottomless pools, painful to look at, like two open sores in the middle of her face. Her skin was caked in crude makeup, a mask guising a shattered complexion, dried tears, a mouth that was forced into a rosebud smile. Cosette cringed away and backed blindly into the torso of her father, who had only just noticed she was gone. She glanced up at him, expecting anger at her disappearance, but he wasn't looking at her. He was staring into the eyes of the prostitute, but with a strangely inscrutable expression. Something close to anger. He curled a hand on Cosette's shoulder, held a franc out to the woman and nodded. Cosette knew that she didn't understand what was happening and that she didn't want to. It was intimidating, exclusive to the adult world. She had a sudden urge to fling herself into his thick arms, to hold him tightly, breathe in his familiar smell of soap and the residual frankincense of that Sunday morning and feel safe again, but she merely let herself be led away, leaving the questions surrounding the interaction dangling above them like a taut tightrope.

After an hour of wandering, Cosette limped her way down Kiri's Lane, feeling as though she were walking to the gallows. Her ribs were aching from where she'd been crushed against the railings and her empty stomach was growling. She collapsed on a slatted bench, her head dizzy. She drew her feet up and closed her eyes, ruminating on all the frantic darkness of the day and the residual heartbreak from Paris. She imagined Marius caught in crossfire, his body only suspended by the bullets that assailed him from both sides. She imagined her father's back being lashed, his cries of pain as old scars were torn open. She imagined herself under the pier, being groaned and sweated against, her eyes as empty as the darkness that surrounded her.

'You can't sleep here.' A rat-faced man with greasy strings of hair hung over her. She opened her mouth.

'But—'

'No "but"s,' he snarled. Something hard struck her knuckles.

 _'_ _Ow!'_ she cried, snatching her hand away. He raised his eyebrows and brandished the slim walking stick like a scepter.

'I am Beadle Bamford,' he said smugly. 'If you don't do as I say you'll be spending the night in a jail cell.'

Cosette cradled her throbbing knuckles and hesitated for a second. Perhaps a night behind bars would be better. She had a chance of being with her father, and of being indoors at least. But thoughts of over-crowded cells, lashings and prison punishments made her reconsider.

'I'm sorry,' she croaked, casting her weary face up at the man. Then, summoning a deep breath, she asked: 'Where can I find the workhouse?'


	4. Chapter 4

_The Old Baily, London._

'Hair colour?'

One of the officers seized a fistful of Valjean's hair. Pained, he winced, causing his shackles to jangle slightly. 'Brown and greying,' he said, releasing his scalp with a shove.

'Nose?'

'Straight.'

The second officer typed ponderously, feeding the yellow parchment through the writer and squinting slightly at the inky words.

'Distinguishing features?'

'Yeah,' the first officer replied. 'He's a fucking froggy. And there are scars all down his back and on his wrists.'

Jean breathed heavily, recounting with shame the preceding moment when he'd been stripped naked and searched for weapons. Now he wore the homogenous canvas uniform that still bore the faint bloodstains of its final wearer and—he realized with a grimace— the lice.

The second officer gave his colleague a withering glance. He was a young man, ginger, and strangely gentle-looking. His pipe smoldered on a nearby ashtray. 'Pronounced French accent,' he decided, typing. 'Old scarring on wrists and back. Now—' he pulled his chair back with a scrape and popped the pipe into his mouth. 'Look into the lens.'

Wriggling slightly from the lice, Jean took a moment to register what was happening. A blackboard was roped around his neck, chalked with a six-digit number that he failed to read.

'Into the aperture,' the officer repeated, tapping the huge, accordion-gilled contraption that glared beadily with a single black eye. 'Hands on your chest.' Jean obliged dumbly. With a glaring flash and a white puff, his picture was captured. 'Very good,' the officer said flatly. 'Brooks will cut your hair.'

Once the heavy timber door has shut behind them, if was like the room had grown five degrees colder. A sweat sprung to Jean's armpits as Brooks unsheathed the scissors, sharp and glossy and wielded with the pride of a farmer to a brand-new hunting gun. One pink, crabby hand bore down on his crown as the other lobbed at the hair, nicking it as close as he could to the skin.

'You won't be here for long,' he muttered. His weight buckled Jean's neck. 'They ship fellas like you off to Australia.'

A black shudder went through him, all down one side. He froze. No. He couldn't go to Australia; he'd rather rot in the holding cell, knowing that there was a chance of seeing Cosette again, than abandon her on the other side of the world. The scissor blade sliced him.

'You'll bake in the heat,' Brooks continued, matter-of-factly. 'It drives some men insane. That's if you make it at all. Some die on the boat. A plague went around a few shipments ago—a whole barrack of men died in their own shit and spew. And they were the lucky ones.'

Jean dropped his gaze into his lap. The silver of his shackles reflected his own face back to him: warped, drawn and shorn bald. A trickle of blood sluiced down his forehead. His heart raced. 'Monsieur,' he started in a low voice, wary of speaking out of turn. 'I…I cannot go to Australia. I must stay here.'

Though he couldn't see it, he could feel Brooks' glare was beating down on him like a hot sun. 'You what?' he said. There was a sound of leather on metal. His baton had been pulled from his belt. Holding everything tense, Jean continued furtively.

'I have a daughter. She is all alone. I can't leave her in this country.'

Jean was not a foolish man—he had spent the best part of his life hiding in shadows, being cautious and choosing his words with care—but at that moment, he failed to see the audacity in his request. Perspective was blitzed by the primal need to protect his child. All he knew was that he couldn't leave London, that he needed to escape, to find Cosette and to guard her once more. It was the only certainty that he had managed to grasp in the hectic cyclone of a day. He felt like a man sliding down a hill, reaching for shrubs and brambles and coming back empty-handed.

'Why you cocky little…' Brooks began to chuckle incredulously. The confusion passed like a cloud. Jean's stomach lurched. 'You'll learn to respect your officers. And I'll make sure you're the first blighter on that sorry ship.' The baton came down with a hard whack. The chair capsized. He was crawling, dazed, injured, following one clear, electric thought: _I have to get out._

'You just don't know how to fucking help yourself, do you?' Brooks growled, as Jean scrambled to the timber door. He shouldered against it with all his might, head spinning. It seemed like the walls were moving. Seasick, he fell to his knees, trying to grasp what was stationary. Brooks stood above him, like a sadistic child watching a de-winged fly struggle across a window ledge. A tiny grill of bars was cemented into the wall, showing a slice of the darkening sky. Jean flocked to it, rattling the bars in his fists as though he could pry them free. Then, like a caught fish struggling for life, he pushed his face against it and sucked in the fresh air that he knew he would be begrudged of for some time.

'You won't survive long in Botany,' Brooks said, with the manner of someone who had seen this kind of frenzy before. With his senses slowly returning to him, Jean yielded, releasing the bars and sliding down the length of the wall.

'My daughter,' he panted. It was like he was being squeezed in a huge metal vice. All logic flouted, all he knew was panic, fear, and loss. He would never see Cosette's face again. He would never lead her to church, never read with her, never delight in how much she had grown, never watch over her as she sat in the golden light of garden and experience the pure, unbounding love that he'd never thought he was capable of. That was the thing he feared losing the most: love. Freedom, liberty and comfort were paltry. But being blanched of the one thing that had kept him alive through forty years of being hunted was unbearable. His life had been a barren desert, and his love for Cosette had been a sudden cool spring. Now it was a mirage, blurring into the distance, teasing him with its absence.

'Quite finished, froggy?' Brooks asked, with a dark softness in his voice. The seconds plodded by. The air was tombal, damp, thick—he was breathing bricks. Somewhere in a neighboring cell, a baby wailed. 'I'm adding a lashing for every second of my time you waste.'

But Valjean didn't care. He truly didn't. At that point, he would happily be cleaved in two by the birch flogger. _All gone,_ he thought. _All the struggling, the toil, the hiding in corners—I haven't been careful enough. And now Cosette will suffer for my callousness. She has had love ripped from her just as mercilessly as I have._

'I've not got time for this.'

He was being lifted from the ground. Swaying on the soles of his feet, he saw white: a maze of whitewashed walls, of putrid paraffin lamps and a subterranean dampness. Then, a huge oak frame. In passing, he'd thought that it was a crucifix. He had been mistaken.

'Kneel,' Brooks barked.

He sank to his knees on the leather rectangle, trying not to look at the slashes. He instead cast his eyes up to the structure, the two wooden arms reaching up, like the arms of the suffering Christ.

The first crack sliced his skin open. He lurched forwards with the sting, biting his lip to prevent himself from crying out. With the second wallop, his old scars were split afresh. The salt and vinegar used to augment the pain seared through his skin, nettling him with aftershocks. He clenched his fists.

'Twenty,' Brooks said, taking Jean's swaying shoulder. He wanted to weep, right from his gut; the pain was unbearable. Another flog smacked down. He hissed. Blood was running into his canvas trousers. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

 _Cosette used to urge him to play dolls with her. He would always be Elizabeth. She'd laugh at the high-pitched voice he'd try._

He'd torn him to muscle.

 _"_ _Jonah and the whale" was her favorite story. He'd read it by candlelight, yawning into the back of his hand. She had an appetite for books when the dark pressed in and she could nestle down beside his heavy warmth. She loved the part when the whale spat him back onto dry land. He'd read and re-read until her eyes had slid shut and her breaths had taken on the rhythm of sleep._

His shoulders chugged with soundless sobs. Fifteen. Sixteen. Brooks panted, pink in the face. He took a break, shaking his arm.

 _Sometimes he'd watch her when she was asleep and be filled with fear. Her hair was splayed out on her pillow like golden silk. Her face was like a cherub's, and yet all he could feel was dread. Dread that one day, he could lose her, and that it would destroy him. He felt like he was cradling the most fragile treasure in his hands and at the peril of dropping it. He walked to the living room, trying to untangle his heartache. He didn't sleep all night._

Seventeen. Eighteen. Relief. Relief. Blinding and white. He wasn't afraid anymore. He turned his eyes up to the frame, begrudged of its Messiah. All was barren and hopeless and he wasn't afraid.

 _Kiri's Lane, London_

Johanna weaved her finger between the bars of the bird cage and whistled. There was a colorful frenzy of wings. Mary leapt onto her fingertip, chirping, and Johanna smiled. Mary was the most handsome of her birds, with a dab of rosewood pink on her breast and a tawny beak. The only thing that prevented her from being truly beautiful was the absence of her eyes. Like all of her birds, she was blind. It was the root of the perennial singing; she knew not night or day.

With a nudge, she freed Mary from her finger and sat by the window once again. Rain struck the panes, causing the people below to clutch their hats and hair. Johanna placed her bare forearm against the glass, relishing the coldness. What was the air like outside? Fresh? The kind of fresh that cut your lungs to take a full breath? Did it smell of rotting flora, of all that had been baked into the cobblestones during the hot weekend? The air in her room was muggy. It smelled of paraffin, heavy fabrics, dust and powder. A few years ago, damp had caused her to fall ill. The maids had scrubbed and scrubbed at the walls as she lay on the bed, dull, blood-red light seeping in through the curtains. She'd woken sporadically, losing track of the hours, not knowing the morning from the dusk. It had been like that the second time, the second time that pain had anchored her to the bed for weeks on end…

The thought lasted for half second, like a wasps' sting. Johanna pulled her hand free of the cage and promptly got up to move to her dresser, as if hoping that the throes of the painful recollection was something she could physically move past. Seating herself, she snatched up the bone handle of her brush and began to drag it through her yellow hair. The mirror reflected her face back to her: her saucer-wide, plaintive eyes, her ivory skin, her long neck which trembled as though nursing a trapped scream.

Most days, she was better at distracting herself. Behind her sat a case crammed with so many books that the shelves had begun to buckle. Turpin would satisfy her desire to read with an indifferent grunt and instructions to the maids to collect every title on her list, unknowing of the power that strained behind their yellowing pages—Johanna had managed to teach herself French, Italian and Latin by herself. She had grasped the basics of religion and history, and had spent many hours sat by her window, steeped in sweeping tales of romance, poverty, war and adventure.

Her most recent endeavor sat splayed on the arm of her chair—a tricky brick of a book that she had hardly broken into. She tried to pin her failed efforts to the denseness of the prose, but Johanna knew that other things were at work. And it was all due to her master.

He was usually a creature of habit; she would hear his footsteps outside her bedroom at around nine o'clock. Nowadays, he could pace for hours, and she didn't know why—his intrusion was inevitable, even if it had been preceded by Mea Culpas' and flatulating. She had stopped resisting at this point. Instead she would lie awake, not wishing for her sleep to be broken, and stare at the floral moldings on the ceiling above her. White lilies.

But the past few days had been different. He'd been agitated some nights and remorseful others. Some weeks ago he had even knelt by her bedside, bowed his head and prayed, his confessions muffled against her bedsheets. _Perhaps he has finally sought a conscience?_ Johanna thought. Whilst not understanding the act fully, she had a feeling that it was shameful. And she'd gleaned from her novels that it was an elusive "act" only sanctified by marriage, not intended between fathers and daughters in the stifled dark.

The door clicked open. She started, dropping her comb with a clatter. Heart racing, her eyes reeled to the clock: four thirty. Too early.

He stepped inside. Slowly. Deliberately. In her mirror, Johanna saw only a pair of legs dissected at the torso. Her heart hammered, wishing to know the expression that was on his face.

There was silence, and yet his presence had altered the entire atmosphere of the room. Everything felt treacle-thick and too hot as he picked his way to the window and drew the curtains closed. Keeping her eyes fixed on her reflection, Johanna watched as the light was shut out, casting her face in darkness.

A bare twenty seconds slugged past. Her pulse hared in the dark.

'What,' she started raspingly, and cleared her throat, startled at her own voice. 'What are you doing here?'

He held the silence for a minute longer. 'Johanna,' he said, in a voice that was barely there. His footfalls were heavy, plodding. It felt like a nail was being hammered further and further into her with each step. She saw the hand before she felt it. It drifted up from her shoulder to her jaw, tracing lightly over her skin. 'My dear Johanna…'

He was becoming lost in the act. Taking a strand of freshly brushed hair, he sifted it through his fingers. Her stomach gave a sick lurch. 'Look at me,' he said, breathless. Johanna stayed still, petrified. 'I said—' he grabbed her suddenly. She squealed in fear as he clamped her jaw and forced her to her feet. _'Look at me!'_

Panting and terrified, she did: his eyes were red raw, his face racked with heavy lines, his hair all in disarray. Johanna's arms trembled. 'Look at what you've done to me,' he said, with such grit that her face was sprayed with spit. His hands reached slowly down, still clamping, until they were wrapped around her throat. Her pulse sat tight and stinging against his grasp. 'You torment me. You tempt me. And I know no peace—no peace of mind, of soul—'

She let out a choked gasp. Blood was filling her face. Every nerve in her body screamed for freedom. 'I am damned because of you.' He pushed his thumb into the soft skin of her neck, angling her windpipe to the side. 'Yet I am not to blame for this temptation. It is you who beguiles me. Say it.'

He rattled her. ' 's me,' she managed, gagging. His eyes flickered, and Johanna was sure that she could see the brain working behind it. She liked to keep her own face blank, unreadable.

'I am just,' he said. The slight look past her made her think that he was trying to convince himself. 'A just and noble caregiver. I took you in when no-one else would. Your vixen of a mother, your foolish pig of a father… they left you nothing. You would be out on the streets if it weren't for me.'

Despite everything, Johanna experienced a sudden rush of excitement. It was seldom that her parents were mentioned. Every scrap of information that was tossed her way—however derogatory—was golden.

'It's the least I can ask for in return for guarding you all these years,' his gaze dribbled down to her breasts, which strained precariously as she fought for breath. 'Payment. Companionship.' He looked up, his face suddenly hard. 'And yet my conscience is burdened.'

Her whole body began to tremble like a caught fish. He gave a smirk, relishing the power he wielded with just one hand. 'What do you propose we do, my dear?'

'Please,' she gasped, and realizing his severity, he loosened his grasp ever so slightly. 'There must be… another girl that you can find. Someone who would…' she struggled with every word, her throat full and aching against his fingers. '…share your bed. A mistress, who is as young as I.' She grasped his wrist, begging him to ease his hold again.

'What would you have me do? Scout the street corners for disease-ridden waifs? Search for gutter girls who have sold their bodies to every drifter in their slum?'

'There must be—' she coughed. '—There must be virtuous girls. Girls who are young and who have not yet been… taken.' Despite the blood that was flooding to her head, Johanna had kept some of her wits about her. There was an unspoken knowledge that Turpin's predilection was for very young girls. This had been attested four years earlier, when a fifteen-year-old servant had fled the Turpin home in tears. Johanna had been woken in the small hours by a furious hammering at the door, and threats that were wielded by the girl's half-crazed father. She also knew that he preferred women of class; his night-time visitors occasioned between the pubescent, scab-faced girls he'd found wandering the lane, or older women, with their smiles and high makeup, painted fans and pearls.

'And where might I find these girls?'

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. The chirping of her birds grew dim. 'I am ignorant to such matters—sir, judge, please,' she gave a whimper. Panic lapped at the edges of her thoughts, but then an idea popped up like a life raft. 'The prisons!' she croaked, thinking suddenly of Charles Dickens. 'The work houses. The girls' reformatory.'

Her legs buckled. Turpin let her collapse to the floor, gasping for breath. She coughed and spluttered as he stood over her, thinking. Rubbing at her bruised throat, she watched as he cast his eyes down to her, crumpled and breathless on the ground.

His quietest words were unleashed: 'For your sake, my child, I hope you are not mistaken.'

 **Hi guys! A lot of research went into this chapter so I would really appreciate some feedback. Have a great day! Gi**


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